A Plague of Heretics

CHAPTER SIX

At dawn next morning, three riders left the West Gate soon after it was opened and splashed through the ford across the Exe, heading for the coast road southwards. Grim-faced, John de Wolfe was in the lead, with Alfred and Gwyn close behind. Thomas had been left behind, as though he offered to come, he was an indifferent horseman and would have slowed them down on his pony. Even John had left his heavy destrier, Odin, behind and taken a swifter rounsey from Andrew’s livery stable to speed his journey. As they cantered down the track towards Powderham and Dawlish, John soberly recalled the events that had set them on this mission.

The previous evening, the reeve had explained how John’s mother, Enyd, had sent him to Exeter with the news that his elder brother had been stricken with the fever that had crept into Stoke over the past four days. So far, eight had been afflicted and two of those had died. William, whose solicitude for his free tenants and villeins was well known, had refused to hide himself away in the manor house, but had insisted on visiting the sick and arranging for food and firewood to be supplied to them.

‘He forbade the ladies to accompany him, though they both wished to help,’ Alfred had said. ‘Within a day and a night, he started shivering and soon was yellow, being brought back to collapse on his bed. Only God knows why he was so stricken, when myself, the priest and several others escaped, though we were also helping to aid the sufferers.’

‘What of my mother and sister? Do they remain in good health?’ demanded John. His mother, Enyd, was a sprightly woman in her early sixties, and Evelyn, six years younger than John, was a placid spinster.

‘They show no signs of the curse, thanks be to Christ,’ Alfred reassured him. There was no one else in the family to be concerned about, as William’s wife Alice had died of a childbirth fever three years earlier.

The horses made good time on the firm roads, as the slight frost that had followed the rain had hardened the mud without being severe enough to leave icy patches. In an hour and a half they reached Dawlish, and it was with reluctance that John trotted straight through the little port without calling on Hilda. A few miles further along the track that hugged the coast, they passed the turning into Holcombe, the other de Wolfe manor, where Hilda’s father was the reeve.

‘Do they know there about my brother’s illness?’ shouted John over the noise of the hooves.

‘I sent a message yesterday, but told them to stay away from Stoke in case they bring back the contagion,’ replied Alfred.

At Teignmouth the tide was ebbing fast out of the river, but they had to wait fretfully for half an hour until the water was low enough for their horses to safely navigate the ford to the sand-spit on the other side. From there it was only a few minutes’ canter to reach the head of the wooded valley that held John’s birthplace of Stoke-in-Teignhead. The village was unnaturally quiet; no work was being done in the strip-fields and the single village street was empty. Smoke filtered out from beneath the eaves of many of the tofts to prove that people were alive, but the villagers were shunning any unnecessary contact with each other. As they passed two of the small thatched cottages, John saw ominous boards nailed across the doors, with a black cross painted on them.

They neared the manor house at the further end of the village before they saw the first living person walking towards them, the priest of St Andrew’s Church. He held up his hand and John reined up alongside, fearful that Father Martin had been to the manor to administer the last rites. Thankfully, the sturdy priest was more reassuring.

‘Lord William is no worse, even if not improved, Sir John. He is weak, but still alive, for which I thank the Holy Virgin — as well as your mother and sister, who are tending him like a baby.’

The parson called William ‘lord’ as befitted the eldest son and holder of the manor title, whereas John was ‘sir’ by virtue of his military knighthood.

‘Is there more of the plague in the village?’ asked John.

‘Two more of the sick children have died, God save their souls,’ admitted Father Martin. ‘And two more have fallen ill in another house. I’m on my way to them now, to see if there is anything I can do.’

He looked exhausted, and John suspected that he had hardly slept since the yellow plague had come to Stoke.

They rode on and clattered over the small bridge across the ditch around the house, a defence which had not been needed since before John was born. Inside the stockade, almost an acre of ground held the square stone-built house and the profusion of sheds, huts and barns that made this a working farm as well as a family home.

Though the courtyard had been empty, the sound of their arrival brought boys out of the stables to take their horses. The old steward hurried out to greet them and shepherded John and Gwyn into the house. There was a large central hall, with two pairs of rooms divided off from it on either side and an upper solar built out over a porch at the front. John ordered Gwyn to stay in the hall, as he did not wish to increase the risk of him catching the contagion in the sickroom and taking it back to his family.

In one of the side rooms he found William lying on a low bed and attended solicitously by his mother and sister, with the steward’s large wife and a younger servant hovering anxiously in the background. The Lord of Stoke appeared to be asleep, his mouth open and his eyes shut, but his breathing was laboured and a sheen of sweat lay on his forehead and face, in spite of the coldness of the room. His face was yellow, as were the hands that lay across his chest. On a table near the bed were bowls of boiled water, flasks of liniment and cloths to lay on the patient’s fevered brow and body. A large bunch of herbs was stuck into a jug, and in the firepit at one side of the room fragrant smoke curled up from where other dried herbs had been sprinkled on the logs. These attempts at treatment suggested desperate frustration that was echoed in the haggard faces of Evelyn and Enyd. They came to embrace him, Evelyn with tears seeping from her eyes.

‘He is no worse today, though no better,’ whispered his mother. ‘All we can do is pray for him.’

They all sank to their knees in the clean rushes that covered the floor, hands clasped and heads bowed. John initially felt he was being false, as he had little real faith in pleading for his brother’s recovery when children were lying dead in the village from the same ailment. But as he raised his head and saw his brother’s face as he strained to cling to life, a wave of love and pity flowed over him, and he fervently asked for God’s mercy on a man who had come from the same womb as himself.

After few moments Enyd rose and took John’s arm to lead him back into the hall, where Gwyn was waiting with the reeve.

‘You men must be tired and hungry after your journey,’ she said firmly.

The steward marshalled a couple of young serving girls to bring food and drink from the outside kitchen, and soon they were sitting eating at a table near the firepit.

‘We feel so helpless to do anything either for William or the others in the village,’ said a distraught Evelyn. ‘There is no physician anywhere nor even an apothecary nearer than Brixham.’

‘I doubt it would help much if there were,’ said John cynically. ‘I have a new doctor living next door to me and he flatly refuses to attend any victims, saying there is nothing he can do for them.’

The steward, hovering behind them with a jug of cider, said that he had heard that morning that new cases were being spoken of in Brixham and Dartmouth, further down the coast.

‘All at ports and harbours,’ muttered Gwyn. ‘It must be coming in from abroad, surely?’

‘I seems like it, but how would it have reached Stoke?’ growled John.

‘We have tradesmen in every day,’ answered Evelyn. ‘They bring in fish from Teignmouth — and we had a chapman through here last week. God knows where he’d been before coming here.’

John could hear the suppressed panic in everyone’s voice, which was also beginning to appear in Exeter. This was an invisible foe, stalking the streets and fields with a stealth that could not be detected. If disease came from a rabid dog, then it could be slain, but this yellow plague could be neither seen, heard nor smelled, which made it doubly terrifying.

They went back and sat alongside William’s pallet for a time, watching helplessly as he lay inert, only his rapid breathing showing that he was still alive. From time to time the steward’s wife moved forward and gently wiped his face with a cloth dipped in warm scented water.

‘Has he been awake at all today?’ asked John.

‘He mumbled and muttered some hours ago, but has not spoken rationally to us since last evening. He has passed no water since then, which worries me. The last lot was almost green.’

‘Has he drunk anything?’

‘We tipped a little watered ale between his lips, but he has swallowed very little,’ replied Enyd.

John recalled from his fighting days that wounded men sometimes died of thirst as much as their injuries and, desperate to find some advice to contribute, suggested that they tried harder to get some fluid into his brother.

‘I’ll try to get that bloody doctor to come down here with me,’ he grunted. ‘And if that fails, then at least a good apothecary.’

At noon they sat down to dinner in the hall; though the food was ample and well cooked, no one had much of an appetite — not even Gwyn, whose capacity for his victuals was legendary. Afterwards, they sat again with William, who had hardly moved on his mattress, until John’s mother decided that there was no point in his staying too late.

‘Get you back to Exeter, my son. There’s nothing you can do here. I know you will have duties there to carry out.’

‘I’ll be back tomorrow, later in the day, and will stay until next morning,’ he promised. ‘If you need me more urgently before then, send Alfred and I’ll come, even if it be in the middle of the night!’

As they were climbing into their saddles in the bailey, with the family and servants gathered around, his mother asked him if he was going to call upon Hilda on the way home. Enyd was very fond of the handsome blonde from Dawlish — if there had not been the social gap between the daughter of a Saxon reeve and a knight’s son, she would have welcomed her as a daughter-in-law. But her husband wanted John married off into an aristocratic Norman family and had pushed him into wedlock with Matilda de Revelle. Enyd had done her best to accept Matilda, but in return John’s wife had never concealed her disdain for his mother, mainly because of her Cornish and Welsh parentage.

John considered her question as he arranged his cloak over the back of his saddle. ‘I think not, Mother. I would never forgive myself if I took contagion to her, just for the sake of seeing her face for a few minutes. Alfred says Holcombe is free of it — it would be better if she went to stay there with her parents, rather than keep to Dawlish, with its ships and ship-men coming and going.’

This time, it was only Gwyn and his master who trotted off through the stricken village. John hoped that he would not see Alfred coming again to Exeter, as it would probably mean that he brought news of William’s death.

As they rode, Gwyn told him of what he had learned the previous evening from his tour of the taverns. ‘I found a couple of men who knew some heretics,’ he said. ‘They seem to think that there is no law against it, as no one gets punished.’

‘Did you get to speak to any yourself?’ called John as they rode almost saddle to saddle along the coast road.

His officer shook his bushy head. ‘No, those sort are not likely to be great frequenters of alehouses. But I know they meet in various places to discuss their beliefs.’

He said that one group used an old derelict barn off the Crediton road, not far from the village of Ide, which the potman at the Bush had mentioned.

‘Who are these people, I wonder?’ queried de Wolfe. ‘We know our corpse was a woodworker and, if Thomas was right about the other, he was just a labourer.’

‘One fellow said that several he knew were foreigners, probably French,’ replied Gwyn. ‘Maybe they were from the Languedoc; that seems to be a breeding place for these folk.’

They passed through Dawlish, and once again John had to resist the temptation to call on Hilda, though this time the fear of bringing contamination, however small the risk, made it easier for him to pass by. They reached Exeter as dusk was falling, and Gwyn went off to the Bush to see his wife and check his latest batch of ale-mash. John carried on to Martin’s Lane to hand back his hired horse, but when he emerged from the stables he did not go straight across to his own front door. Instead, he went to the next house and rapped on the heavy oak with the pommel of his dagger. It was opened by a young maid, but before he could state his business Cecilia appeared behind her.

‘Sir John, you are most welcome.’ She waved him in and he went into their hall, which was well furnished and better lit than his own, with a large fire flaming in the firepit and a series of tallow-dips flickering in sconces around the walls.

‘I am afraid my husband is not here, though he said he will be early this evening as he wishes to attend a special service at the cathedral. It seems that one of the canons is to preach a sermon on the dangers of heresy,’ she added with a wry smile.

The doctor’s wife looked as attractive as always, slender and erect, with a crisp linen head-cloth and a silken gorget covering her throat up to her chin. She offered him refreshment, which he gravely declined.

‘I was hoping to see him to ask his professional advice,’ said John and went on to tell her of his brother being stricken by the yellow distemper. Cecilia seemed genuinely upset by his news, holding her fingers to her lips in a gesture of concern.

‘Your only brother? That is desperately sad,’ she said solicitously, reaching out to lay a consoling hand gently on his arm. Her maid lurked in the background, resolutely chaperoning her mistress. As if in answer to her suspicions, there was a noise from the outer vestibule and the girl hurried out to meet her master, who had just arrived.

Clement of Salisbury handed her his cloak and broad-brimmed pilgrim’s hat and came into the hall, looking slightly startled as he saw the tall, looming figure of his neighbour. Cecilia started forward, but John noticed that she did not give him a welcome embrace. Instead, she launched into the reason for him being there.

‘Sir John has grave tidings, Clement! His brother, the Lord of Stoke and Holcombe, has been stricken by this plague.’

The physician made sympathetic noises and declared how mortified Sir John must be at the news.

‘He is still alive but looks dreadfully sick,’ said John.

‘You have seen him?’ asked Clement, apparently surprised.

‘Only a few hours ago — I have just returned from his bedside.’

‘Is there anything we can do to help you?’ offered the physician.

‘I would be very grateful if you would come with me tomorrow to see if you can do anything for my brother. I would naturally pay whatever fee you desire.’

From his previous conversations with the doctor, John expected a polite refusal, but he was confounded by Clement’s answer.

‘Tomorrow? I think I could manage that, though I would have to desert several of my patients. There is no question of a fee, Sir John; you are my neighbour.’

As the coroner made a rapid revision of his opinion of the physician, they agreed on the details of a late start next morning, then John took his leave, with profound thanks to Clement and a stiff bow to Cecilia.

‘I will pray for your brother and your whole family,’ she murmured as she followed him to the front door, which the maid opened for him.

He went out into the lane and took a few steps towards his own house, then stopped. Making a sudden decision, he swung around and strode off towards the High Street.

Later that evening the coroner walked down to the Bush, with his old hound weaving ahead of him, enjoying the smells of the odorous Exeter streets. In the tavern he sat with Gwyn at his usual table by the fire, as though the icy weather had moderated it was still a chilly, windswept night and he was glad of the warmth.

By the time Edwin had brought them a quart mug apiece, Thomas appeared, summoned by Gwyn at John’s request after returning from Stoke. Almost by habit, the priest sidled into the inn as if entering a den of sin, though he had been there innumerable times before, especially when mothered by Nesta, during his worst period before being restored to the priesthood. Settled with a cup of cider, he asked solicitously after William de Wolfe and fervently promised to pray for his recovery.

‘Afterwards, I went up to seek advice from Richard Lustcote and he immediately agreed to come down to Stoke tomorrow with the doctor to see William.’

Lustcote was the senior of the three Exeter apothecaries, who had a shop in North Street. From past experience, John held a high opinion of him, both as a man of integrity and as a good apothecary. Like Clement of Salisbury, he had warned John that there was very little he could do, except perhaps to alleviate some of the symptoms, but he was willing to make the long ride to Stoke for the sake of his friendship with de Wolfe.

John then got down to business, glad to have something to take his mind off his personal problems for a while.

‘Gwyn has discovered something about the heretics, Thomas. It seems that one group holds covert meetings not far from the city. Did you glean any more from the cathedral?’

‘Not so much about the blasphemers themselves, master, but I did pick up some facts about the people who are determined to stop them.’

He hunched closer across the table, as if he was about to disclose some state secrets. ‘The three canons who are the prime movers in this matter are very keen indeed to extirpate any deviation from the rule of Rome. Some of my vicar friends even say that they are totally obsessed by what they see as a crusade.’

‘So why have they chosen to start their crusade now?’ asked John. ‘Surely these critics of the Church have been around for a long time.’

Thomas wiped a drop from the tip of his sharp nose with the back of his hand. The cold weather affected him and he was always sniffing and wheezing. ‘Robert de Baggetor spent some time in Aquitaine and Toulouse a year ago, and when he came back it seems he was full of outrage about the rise of the Albigensian heresy in that region. Then he began hearing reports of men with similar sympathies in this county and tried to persuade the bishop to act against them.’

Gwyn yawned and banged his pot on the table to attract Edwin’s attention. He was a man of action and Thomas’s tales tended to send him to sleep. De Wolfe, however, was keen to learn more.

‘I take it that Henry Marshal had more important things on his mind, like plotting with Prince John to oust King Richard?’

Thomas shrugged. ‘Probably, but as de Baggetor could raise little enthusiasm in the bishop’s palace, he started a campaign of his own. He found two other canons of a like mind and they have been using the proctors’ bailiffs to do their spying for them.’

‘We know all that already,’ grunted Gwyn. ‘What we need to know is who is likely to have snuffed out the woodcarver and possibly the man you saw in the plague pit.’

De Wolfe ignored his officer’s grumble and jabbed a long finger at his clerk. ‘So what are they going to do about it now?’ he asked. ‘They’ve lost the man who they were going to haul up before the bishop’s court. Are there any others under suspicion?’

Thomas bobbed his head. ‘So it seems! They have this list of names which we copied and their bailiffs are actively seeking more. They say they know that several groups meet for discussions and to hold their own type of sacrilegious services. They wish to catch them red-handed.’

This stimulated Gwyn to take more interest. ‘If I could learn of one of these meetings just from visiting a couple of taverns, then the proctors’ men can do the same.’

‘Have you got that list with you, Thomas?’ demanded John.

The clerk scrabbled under his cloak for the pouch on his belt and took out a folded scrap of parchment. ‘A dozen names on it, Crowner,’ he said, smoothing out the piece of thin sheepskin on the table. ‘They mean nothing to me, I must admit.’

‘Let’s hear them,’ commanded the coroner. ‘Maybe Gwyn can recognise someone from his tour of the alehouses.’

Thomas began to read out the twelve names, and Gwyn halted him after the fifth.

‘Adam of Dunsford! I recall that name, not from a tavern, but from a jury I assembled, just before we went off to London.’

‘Why would you recall that particular juror from scores of others?’ asked de Wolfe.

‘Because he never became a juror — the night before the inquest, he slipped and broke his foot. I had to find someone else to make up the numbers.’

‘Where does he live?’

‘In Alphington, on the other side of the river. He was a fishmonger, I remember. He had a stall on West Street.’

Thomas read the remaining names and the very last one was familiar to John himself.

‘Wait, I know that name! Hengist of Wonford, accused of stealing a chalice from a church. He came before the Commissioners of Gaol Delivery last year, but was acquitted. I recall him because of that strange Saxon name.’

‘His parents must have been familiar with the works of the Venerable Bede to give him a name like that,’ said Thomas wryly, but his historical allusion was lost on the other two.

‘So we can find two of these heretics, if they haven’t already been assassinated!’ observed Gwyn.

‘Why do we need them?’ objected the clerk. ‘It’s the killer we need to find.’

De Wolfe sided with his officer. ‘They might know something about who is harassing them most severely. Some may have had death threats, for all we know.’

After more discussion, the coroner finally decided to seek out the two named men in the morning, before he rode off again to Stoke-in-Teignhead with the physician and the apothecary.

West Street was the continuation of Fore Street, as it sloped downhill towards the West Gate from the crossroads at Carfoix. The top end was lined with the stalls and booths of tradesmen, varying from exposed trestle tables to tent-like erections of brightly striped canvas. All manner of goods were on display, though food was the mainstay of this part of the market. Meat which still dripped blood hung on the butchers’ stalls, fresh from The Shambles at the top end of South Gate Street, where the slaughterers felled cattle, sheep and pigs at the edge of the road. Many other traders offered vegetables, though the range was limited at this time of year, mainly root crops and cabbage. Between the stalls, women — many of them aged crones — crouched over baskets of eggs or had a few live chickens or a goose trussed at their feet. This early part of the morning was the busiest, as the cooks, house-servants and the city’s wives were all out shopping for the day’s provisions and the roads were thronged with people. Though the fear of plague was almost palpable, the townsfolk still had to buy the makings of their meals.

The coroner’s trio were looking for a fishmonger and they found a choice of four or five. Enquiries took them to a burly, red-faced man who stood behind a table carrying flat trays of fish, some still flapping feebly. Wicker baskets on the ground held other larger fish, as well as eels, crayfish and mussels.

One look told him that a Norman knight, a priest and a red-headed giant were not there to buy fish. Frowning, he finished dealing with a customer, putting ten herrings in the bowl she held out, in exchange for half a penny-piece.

‘You are Adam of Dunsford?’ asked John as soon as the woman had moved away. The fish-man nodded and wiped his hands on his apron, a length of once-white linen now soiled with fish blood and entrails.

‘And you are the coroner, sir,’ he answered civilly. ‘You are very well known in the city.’

De Wolfe checked to make sure that no one was standing nearby, as this was business that need not be shouted abroad. He lowered his voice a little.

‘We have seen your name on a certain list held by the cathedral authorities,’ he began. ‘That is no concern of mine, except that it may lead me to discover who might have killed Nicholas Budd. I presume that name means something to you?’

The weather-beaten face clouded over, and he became instantly suspicious. ‘I know that the poor fellow met a terrible death,’ he said cautiously. ‘But what business is it of mine?’

John leaned across the table, his fists avoiding fish scales and blood.

‘Let’s not beat about the bush, Adam. We both know you are on the Church’s list of suspected heretics. Budd is dead and we suspect that Vincente d’Estcote may be another. Do you know anything about his death?’

The fishmonger looked furtively from side to side, as if he was afraid that Bishop Marshal might be lurking in the pastry-cook’s booth next door. ‘Vincente just vanished from his lodgings; no one saw him go,’ he muttered. ‘He was in good health an hour before, because I saw him myself.’

‘He was one of your group, was he?’ asked de Wolfe, but Adam shook his head.

‘No, he subscribed to the beliefs of the Cathars. He had been in the king’s army and had spent time down in France.’

‘So what are you, man?’ demanded John. ‘You may as well answer, you admit you knew him.’

Adam drew in a deep breath, as if committing himself to an irrevocable decision. ‘I follow the ways of Pelagius — and I am not alone in that.’

Thomas in his surprise and disbelief made a noise almost like a mouse’s squeak. ‘A Pelagian! There have been no Pelagians for six centuries!’

Adam regarded the priest placidly. ‘It has been revived by many, even if not in name. The principles are well known, and those who disagree with the dictatorship of Rome come together to discuss the True Way.’ He held his dirty hands out towards the clerk as if inviting him to put bonds upon them. ‘Now you may denounce me, if you wish.’

Thomas seemed nonplussed for once and looked to the coroner for support. ‘I am here as an assistant to an officer of the King’s Peace. I leave Church discipline to others.’

De Wolfe nodded his agreement. ‘I am investigating a murder, Adam, not doing the Pope’s work for him. You might be more at risk from whoever killed those men than from the bishop’s court. Have you any idea who might have wished them dead?’

‘Those canons undoubtedly hate us, but I doubt they would stoop to murder,’ muttered the other man. ‘His proctors are bullies but are just paid servants, so why would they care?’ He shook his head. ‘No, I cannot guess who may have done this terrible thing. Perhaps some mad parish priest? We have sympathisers all over the county. Any village parson with an unhinged mind could have taken the law into his own hands.’

The coroner decided to change his approach. ‘Where can we find the other men on this list?’ he asked. ‘We know of this Hengist of Wonford, but maybe the others can help us to track down this killer.’

He motioned to Thomas, who took out his piece of parchment and started to read out the remaining ten names. However, Adam took it from them and scanned it himself, much to the astonishment of the others.

‘How is it that an Exeter fish-man can read and be so knowledgeable of Church history?’ asked Thomas, slightly affronted that his monopoly of such knowledge was being displaced by a mere tradesman.

Adam smiled wanly. ‘It goes to prove that priests are not indispensable in man’s dealings with the Almighty,’ he answered. ‘My father put me as a child into St Nicholas’s Priory, intending me to enter holy orders — but he died and I had to leave to support my mother and sisters. In the few years I was there, I learned a great deal, especially how to hate priests, begging your pardon!’

The fishmonger went back to studying the list and nodded at several of them. ‘Those three belong to our way of thinking,’ he said cautiously, repeating their names. ‘I am not sure where they live, but they attend most of our meetings.’

‘Are those the meetings you hold in a barn near Ide?’ snapped John.

A look of surprise spread over Adam’s face. ‘How did you know that? It’s supposed to be a secret.’

‘Fine bloody secret, if you can hear it bandied about in every alehouse!’ said Gwyn sarcastically.

‘When is your next meeting?’ asked the coroner. ‘I wish to speak to your fellows there, to see if they know anything useful.’

‘Monday, at the end of the afternoon. Those of us from the city have to get back in before the gates close at dusk.’

John took directions to the barn and reassured Adam that he was not coming to spy on them for the bishop or his clergy. Thomas looked a little uncomfortable at this and, when they left the fishmonger’s stall, he asked if he could be excused from Monday’s venture.

‘I could be censured by the bishop if I attended such a meeting and failed to report it, which is my duty as an ordained priest, master,’ he said miserably. ‘In fact, even knowing what we have just learned is very difficult for me to reconcile with my conscience. These are people whose philosophy is directly in opposition to the Church I serve. I should be doing my utmost to confound them.’

De Wolfe laid a hand on his clerk’s shoulder as they walked back up Fore Street. ‘I understand, Thomas, believe me! I am only concerned with catching and hanging a cruel killer. What the Church does about its rivals is none of my business. So you stay at home on Monday. No doubt Gwyn will be protection enough for me when I penetrate this den of blasphemers!’

Suiting his actions to his words, he sent Thomas off to his duties at the cathedral and carried on with Gwyn to the livery stables, where they saddled up and set off for Wonford, a village just a mile or so south-east of the city.

They rode through the straggle of dwellings that was spilling out around the thriving city and travelled through a mixture of woodland and strip-fields to reach the hamlet. It was part of a royal manor but rented out to an aged knight who left its running to a bailiff. They overtook a man pushing a barrow of manure and Gwyn reined up to ask directions.

‘Where can we find a man called Hengist?’

The villein raised a lined face, with a couple of blackened teeth protruding from under his upper lip. ‘Hengist? You may well ask, sir, for he’s vanished!’

De Wolfe leaned forward from the other side of Gwyn. ‘Vanished? What the hell d’you mean?’

‘Just that, sir, he’s disappeared. We’ve been searching for him since yesterday.’

The man picked up the handles of his barrow ready to walk on. ‘You’d best speak to the bailiff, sir, he knows most about it. Ask for him in the alehouse.’

He marched away and the coroner and his officer jerked their horses into motion and went on into the little village, where the squat church and the alehouse opposite were the only substantial buildings.

Gwyn slid from his saddle outside the tavern, marked by a bedraggled bush hanging over the door. He stuck his head under the low lintel of the doorway and a moment later came out, followed by a young man with sandy hair and a long brown tunic.

‘I’m Robert the bailiff, sir. I understand you are also seeking Hengist?’

‘I am indeed, but what’s happened to him?’ demanded de Wolfe.

‘He’s our harness-maker and he was in his workshop the night before last, but no one has seen him since,’ replied Robert, who John thought seemed an intelligent-looking fellow.

‘Does his family not know where he is?’

‘He is a widower, sir. His two sons live elsewhere in the vill. One came to visit the next afternoon, but there was no sign of him. We have looked all through the crofts and tofts and the fields — nothing!’

‘How can he vanish in such a small place?’ grunted Gwyn.

‘His sons are now out searching further afield, but beyond our strips, the forest starts. He could be anywhere in there, maybe having lost his wits or had a palsy.’

‘We need to find him. Can you show us where he lives, bailiff?’

A lad came out of the alehouse to hold their horses and, with a couple of curious villagers trailing behind them, the bailiff led them on foot across the rutted road and past the church. Here there was a small cottage of whitewashed cob, with a grass-infested thatch. A large open lean-to at the side was his workshop, filled with oddments of leather, ox-harness and a variety of tools.

‘Can I ask why you are seeking him, coroner?’ said Robert respectfully, as they stood looking around at the crudely equipped workplace.

‘I wanted to question him, but now I fear he may be in danger — or worse!’ growled de Wolfe. ‘Tell me more about him. What sort of a man was he?’ Unconsciously, he had already spoken in the past tense.

For the first time the bailiff looked uncomfortable. ‘Well, he was an odd fellow. A good worker, but he fell out with the parish priest some years ago and refused to attend church or take part in any of the village festivities. He was a freeman, so we let him go his own way.’

There seemed nothing to find outside, so the bailiff led them into the one-roomed cottage through a shaky wooden door secured by leather hinges and simple hasp and staple, with a piece of twig jammed through to keep it closed.

‘No fear of thieves in this village,’ said Robert, in an attempt to lighten the mood. Inside, there was again little to see, just a mattress on the straw-covered floor of beaten earth, a small table and two stools, a few shelves with pots and pans, and some food.

Gwyn bent to feel the ashes in the central firepit, which were as cold as the rest of the room. John saw no signs of a struggle or any bloodstains, but, as they were leaving, Gwyn touched his arm and pointed down at the floor just inside the threshold. In the dusty straw were two tracks, each a couple of inches wide and a foot-length apart. They passed out of the doorway and vanished on the harder earth outside.

‘They look like heel-marks from someone being dragged,’ murmured Gwyn.

John and the bailiff looked at them for a long moment. ‘I can’t think of a better explanation,’ agreed John. He turned to Robert.

‘Has anyone visited him lately? Any strangers been in the village?’

‘Only the usual folk, a chapman and, a few days back, a man with a cart trying to sell pots and bowls. Oh, and, of course, those men from the bishop, who came to see the priest last week.’

John was instantly alert. ‘What did they want?’ he snapped.

‘I don’t know exactly. Father Patrick told us to mind our own business.’

‘Were they priests?’ asked de Wolfe.

Robert shook his head. ‘No, though they wore black tunics. They weren’t clerks, for they carried clubs on their saddle-bows, as well as wearing long daggers.’

‘The proctors’ men,’ muttered Gwyn.

‘But Hengist has been seen since then?’ demanded John.

‘Yes, that was more than a week ago. He was seen about his usual business until Thursday.’

The bailiff had nothing else to tell them, and de Wolfe decided to talk to the parish priest. Robert took them to the gate in the churchyard wall and pointed to a small house in the far corner.

‘You’ll find him there, sir. He’s a forthright sort of man, Crowner,’ he added, a hint of warning in his voice.

De Wolfe and Gwyn walked between the low grave-mounds, set among a wide ring of ancient yews, to reach the parsonage. The warped boards of the door opened to repeated knocking, and the sleepy face of a rotund priest appeared, having been awakened from sleep, even though the morning was by now well advanced. He was a fat man, with jowls hanging below a bad-tempered face. His tonsure had not been shaved for some time, a grey stubble sprouting over it, matching his unshaven cheeks.

‘What do you want with me?’ he muttered, staring at his two tall visitors through bleary eyes.

De Wolfe, holding his short temper in check with difficulty, explained who he was and that he wanted to talk about Hengist the leather-worker.

‘You know he’s missing?’ snapped John irritably.

‘Of course I do. Wasn’t I out half the day and night looking for him with the rest of the village?’ responded the priest testily. He spoke English with an Irish accent, reminding the coroner of his campaigning days in that green isle.

Grudgingly, he invited them in to his one-roomed abode, though a back door led into a cubbyhole that was his kitchen. The main feature of his living room was a large box-bed at one side, with sliding doors to keep out the draughts. John suspected that he spent a large part of his time snoring inside it. There were a few books and some writing materials on a table, so Patrick was not illiterate, a failing not uncommon in the incumbents of rural parishes.

‘What can you tell us about this Hengist?’ he asked as they stood around the near-dead firepit. ‘We were told that he had a disagreement with you, some time ago.’

Father Patrick snorted. ‘Disagreement! The man was a damned pagan, with his blasphemous ideas. I would have banned him from my church, except that he refused to come anyway!’

‘Is that why the proctors’ men called on you last week?’

The priest glared at the coroner as if to condemn his prying into his business. ‘It was indeed! I had several times reported this Hengist to the bishop, after many months of his refusing to come to Mass or make his confession.’

‘So you think he was a heretic?’

Patrick’s paunchy face reddened with annoyance. ‘Think? I knew! He would argue with me when I remonstrated with him. Gave me a lot of seditious nonsense about free will and the freedom to choose his own path to salvation. To damnation, more like!’

De Wolfe considered this for a moment. ‘You said you told the bishop more than once about this. What happened on the first occasions?’

‘Absolutely nothing!’ ranted the priest. ‘They ignored me in Exeter. I heard when I visited there later that the bishop and his staff thought that it was not serious and that in any event they had no time to deal with it.’

‘So what did you do?’ asked Gwyn, speaking for the first time.

‘As no one in the bishop’s palace seemed interested, I sought out my archdeacon, John de Alençon, who is also vicar-general, having the bishop’s ear. But he, too, said that there was little he could do about it, but he sent me to one of the other canons, who he said had an interest in heresy.’

Now John wondered whether this lone man in Wonford had been the one who had sparked off this witch-hunt. ‘Which canon was that?’ he asked.

‘Robert de Baggetor. He was the first one who listened to me with any concern. He said he and several other members of the chapter would look into the matter.’

‘When was this?’

‘About a month ago, before the outbreaks of plague started to occur.’ He beat a fist into the palm of his hand, animated at last.

‘I am not surprised that the Lord has sent this curse. It is punishment for the rise of apostasy in the land!’

John was not clear what ‘apostasy’ meant and resolved to ask Thomas when he next saw him.

‘So why did these proctors’ bailiffs visit you?’ he asked.

‘The canons had eventually persuaded the bishop to investigate Hengist and came to tell me to be in Exeter next week, when he would be brought before his chancellor for interrogation. They also wanted to know if I knew of any others with such heretics’ beliefs.’

‘And do you?’ demanded the coroner.

The priest clutched his shabby bed-robe closer about him. It was cold in here with the fire just a heap of ashes with a faint glow in the centre. ‘I know there are more, but not in Wonford. Hengist used to walk out somewhere every week or so, and I suspect he met other blasphemers, but he refused to tell me about them.’

‘Did you know what kind of heretic he was?’ asked John. ‘I understand from my learned clerk that there are a number of different beliefs.’

‘We argued about predestination, free will and the right of any man to communicate with God without the intervention of a priest. He claimed that all worldly manifestations are innately evil. Such dangerous nonsense must mean that he sympathises with these bloody French Cathars.’

De Wolfe was there to investigate a murder and now a missing man, rather than debate theology, about which he was sublimely indifferent and ignorant.

‘So as far as you know, there is no cell of heretics within this village?’

Patrick shook his bull-like head, the dewlaps under his chin shaking vigorously. ‘Not in my parish, Crowner! Having one evil bastard is more than enough — and I have dealt with him, through the Church.’

‘But where do you think he’s gone?’ demanded Gwyn.

‘Run away, that’s what! He knew he had to face the God-given power of the Church next week, so he’s taken the coward’s way out and run off

John thought of the drag-marks on the cottage floor and doubted that Hengist had left voluntarily. There was nothing more to be learned from the priest, and they made their way back to Exeter, leaving instructions with Robert the bailiff that he should send them word if Hengist was found, dead or alive.

They called in at Rougemont before going home for dinner and found Thomas there, carrying a message that there had been two deaths reported in the city, one a fatal brawl in the Saracen Inn, the roughest tavern in Exeter. The other was a body recovered from the river at Exe Island, too decomposed to be recognised.

‘They’ll have to wait until Monday, as it’s Sunday tomorrow, but you get down there, Gwyn,’ he ordered. ‘Get details and the names of those who will be First Finders and who must form a jury for the inquests.’

‘I thought I was coming with you to Stoke?’ objected his officer.

‘Clement the physician and Richard Lustcote are riding with me. I don’t know about the doctor, but the apothecary is big and fit and can use a sword if we are waylaid by outlaws. The coroner’s duties have to be attended to until I get back.’

After another silent meal with a sullen wife, John prepared to leave to visit his sick brother. This time, as speed was not an issue, he took Odin from the stables and, as arranged, met Clement there, who took out his fine grey gelding. As they rode away down West Street, John noted again, with some surprise and admiration, that Clement was a fine horseman; controlling the frisky grey with considerable skill.

They met up with the apothecary at the West Gate. Lustcote was a tall man, grey-haired and with a calm nature, who never became flustered. He was the city’s favourite apothecary, with a flourishing business that employed a journeyman and two apprentices.

Clement seemed a little surprised at seeing that a mere ‘pill-pusher’ was to accompany them, but he was civil enough to him as they rode towards the coast. Once again John forced himself to trot through Dawlish without calling on Hilda. He hoped that his quick passage through the village would not be reported to her, as she might think that he was shunning her if she did not know of the plague in Stoke-in-Teignhead, though on reflection it was unlikely that her family in Holcombe would not have been unaware of it, as William was also their manor-lord.

They reached Stoke without problems and found his brother in much the same condition as the previous day. There had been no more cases of the plague in the village and none of those who were ill had died.

‘He murmurs fretfully in his sleep now and then,’ reported Enyd. ‘He is still so hot, his forehead feels as if it is on fire.’

Clement examined the victim patiently, now apparently indifferent to the fear of contagion, looking into his yellowed eyes and feeling his pulse. He timed William’s rapid, shallow breathing with a tiny sandglass he carried in his scrip, then examined a sample of his urine collected in a small glass vial. Holding it up against the light of a candle, for it was now dusk, he shook it and smelled it.

‘Very thick and dark,’ he commented, almost to himself.

Turning to John’s mother and sister, he advised them to try to force more watered ale down the patient’s throat. ‘I know it’s difficult, but he needs to flush out the poisons from his system. Don’t use wine; that merely dries him up.’

Richard Lustcote also examined William and then had a murmured discussion with the physician, both of them seemingly amicable professional colleagues in spite of their differing status.

With a last sad look at his suffering brother, John went with the others into the hall and sat down to a good meal. When his mother and sister had forced food into them almost to bursting point, they sat around the fire with cups of wine.

The doctor and the apothecary did their best to reassure the family that all that could be done was being done. Clement emphasised the power of prayer and fell into an earnest conversation with Evelyn, who was very religious and who had wanted to take the veil herself.

Lustcote stuck to the medical aspects, speaking to John and his mother. ‘I only wish there was more I can do. As we have no idea what causes this distemper, there is no rational way to treat it. I can leave some herbs and drugs to soothe him and try to abate his fever, but it is your nursing and love that will be the best treatment.’

Evelyn, a plump woman, thanked them both with tears in her eyes. ‘Does the fact that no one else in the village has since caught this vile disease — and no more of those who are now sick have died — give us hope that it is abating?’ she asked hopefully.

Richard was cautious in his reply, but had not the heart to deny her clutching at straws. ‘It may be so, lady. It seems that after the first few days the contagion does not pass so easily from one person to another. I most sincerely hope so!’ he added with feeling, as they were all at risk.

In the morning little had changed, but William opened his eyes properly for a few moments and briefly seemed to take in his surroundings, before lapsing again into a troubled, mumbling sleep. Clement again checked his pulse and breathing and tried to get another urine sample, but failed.

‘His main problem is in not passing enough water,’ he repeated. ‘Do all you can to force drink into him — spring water, diluted cider or ale, anything to flush out whatever evil humour is infecting his body.’

When there was no more they could do or say, they rode away, leaving a grateful and more hopeful family to wave them off.